Perfect Weapon
by nano2015
Summary: Stiles has no memory the night he lost his best friend and team mate, Scott. Meanwhile, the rest of the Wolf pack is working to recreate that night, but the answers are locked inside Stiles' mind. Totally not TW universe. All human characters.
1. Chapter 1

Questions marks. That was what his life was full of. As far back as he could remember, there were things that didn't make sense. Not that he could remember much. Two years ago, they told him, he'd been the only survivor in a car accident that had killed his best friend, Scott McCall. A friend that he had no memory of. There was only a blank white space in his memory of anything before that accident, and if he focused too long on it, all he would end up with was a headache.

His name was Stiles Stilinski, and he was the heir to Stilinski Investment Corporation, a multi million dollar company that his dad had built from the ground up. As much as his dad wished he was involved, Stiles went through the motions of going to the office every day, but he just couldn't see himself spending his life in a cubicle. There was nothing more boring to him than charts full of numbers, or managing the money of the super rich. Still, he tried, for his dad's sake.

One of the biggest problems was that ever since he'd woken up after that car accident, and probably before, he assumed, he'd been plagued by an illness that defied most treatments that doctors tried. Some days he felt so awful that he couldn't even go into the office, which only annoyed his father more. His dad couldn't imagine why Stiles wasn't like him, and Stiles couldn't imagine why his dad expected him to be some kind of a progeny. Just once, he wanted his dad to lay off, or to find another heir for his precious company.

Stiles was in his office that morning, just like most mornings, reviewing documents for a meeting later with some prospective clients. He set the papers down and rubbed his eyes, accepting the tea that his assistant, Tyler, offered. Tyler was a lifesaver at work, even going so far as to come to Stiles' apartment and run through paperwork or other business tasks with Stiles on days when Stiles wasn't up to going in to the office.

"Thank you."

"Do you want me to call a car to take you home? I'm sure one of the other associates would be willing to take over this meeting." Tyler asked, sliding his phone out of his pocket to call.

"No, I'll be fine. It's just one meeting. It shouldn't take more than an hour, and then my father won't be able to complain that I don't do anything around here."

"He hardly has room to complain. You get done in half the time what it takes some of the others hours to finish. And your client retention and new client base is 10% higher than the company average. As much as you don't like the work, even he has to admit that you're good at it." Tyler said, sitting down in the chair across from him.

The meeting went smoothly, and when it was over, and after Stiles typed up his report for the next day, he followed Tyler down to where the car was waiting. Stiles gave the driver directions, and the two sat back in comfortable silence. Stiles looked out the window, and for a moment, an odd feeling stirred up inside him. He could have sworn he remembered something, and it was just on the edge of his memory, but he just couldn't quite grasp it.

"Wait," he said to the driver. "Take us to the park. I'd like to get a little fresh air." He could tell that Tyler was studying him, gauging whether or not this was a good idea. Tyler was more focused on Stiles' health than Stiles was, and at times, it was a little annoying. "I'm fine. Fresh air is what the doctor ordered." Tyler shook his head in defeat, but he didn't say anything. When they pulled up to the park, the trees that stood intermittent, were gold and orange and red, autumn in full swing. Stiles got out and took in a deep breath, letting it out, and with it, the tensions of the day. He sat down on a bench and let the sun shine on him and warm him up through the crisp air. This was his favorite time of the year, when the air was getting cold, and people were getting ready for the cold to set in, but before they needed winter coats or boots. But after what seemed like no time at all, Tyler was at his side.

"The driver needs to get home. We can come back another day." Stiles reluctantly got up and slid into the back seat of the car. Tyler got in next to him, and gave the driver the address. As they pulled away, Stiles took one last look back toward the park. Why did this place seem to mean something? And why did he feel a prickle on the back of his neck, as though someone was watching him?

From across the street, there was someone watching. A man sat in a nondescript green car, and as the black car drove away, he pulled out his phone to make a call.

"He was at the park again," he said.

"Alone?" On the other end, a woman sounded alarmed.

"No, his assistant was with him." The man, Isaac, said.

"Did he see you? Did he say anything?"

"Lydia, don't you think I would have told you that first?" He asked, a testy edge to his voice. "It's been four years, and there hasn't been a single sign that things are getting better."

"I'll talk to Allison and see if she's come up with any more ideas," Lydia said. "We can't lose hope."

"You do that," Isaac said. "I'll see you in the morning. I'm heading home." He ended the call and tossed his phone on the seat next to him. He drove home through the dark streets, automatically noticing everything, without really paying attention to anything. He worked for a top-secret branch of the federal government that dealt with organized crime and undercover work that those who knew about called the Agency. The agents worked in teams of six, with a leader, called the alpha, and five betas, or support members. Up until two years ago, Stiles had been the tactician on their team, with Isaac, Scott, Derek, Allison and Lydia. They called themselves the wolf pack, and they had been unstoppable. Until, two years ago. In June, two years ago, Stiles and Scott were casing a warehouse that their intel told them was the meeting place for an auction for high powered assault rifles. What exactly happened wasn't clear. All the rest of the wolf pack knew was that Stiles had some kind of head injury, and Scott hadn't survived the trip to the hospital. In the days that followed, it became clear that Stiles' memory was completely gone. When the others went to visit him in the hospital, he didn't even recognize them. Doctors hoped that with time, Stiles' memory would come back, but in the past two years, there had been only minimal improvement. In every other way, he improved and recovered, but whatever happened that night was gone.

The next morning, Isaac made his way to an office in the Agency headquarters and knocked on the door. There was the distinct click of a lock, and then the door swung open.

"Isaac. You have the report I asked for?" Allison Argent held her hand out, knowing that Isaac would deliver. He handed her the file, and walked past her to sit down at the desk. Allison closed the door and sat down across from him. "I heard you saw Stiles last night. How did he look?"

"Fine. Clueless. I don't know. If he was here, he would have a hundred questions and have everything figured out. But the way things are, he doesn't even know that there are questions to ask." Isaac said, pouring a cup of coffee. "Derek says to keep our distance, but I think we have to do something to bring him back. I mean, can you imagine Stiles being happy somewhere besides the middle of the action?"

"No, but if Derek says to stay away, then we have to stay away. He's the Alpha." Allison said, for herself as much as for Isaac.

"Yes, well it's all well and good for Derek, isn't it?" Isaac muttered. He got up and took his coffee with him. "Let me know when he gets back so we can go through the report together." He strode out of the office, a stack of forms tucked under one arm. One of the many problems with Stiles not having his memories was that without knowing specifically what happened that last night, they were left vulnerable to attacks from whoever it was who had ambushed Scott and Stiles. Plus, Stiles' ADD had contributed to him being a brilliant tactician, because as distractible as he could be, what caught his attention were flaws in their plans, or weaknesses in the enemy's plans. Without him and Scott, the wolf pack was two members short, so Isaac was left the unenviable task of trying to fill those two spots. They needed a tactician, and what they called a runner, someone who communicated information to the rest of the team, ran after suspects who tried to flee, and was skilled in hand to hand combat. The wolf pack prided themselves on having the best record at the agency, but Isaac was struggling to find agents who could fill the roles with the standards that they needed to have. It wasn't just a matter of pride. As the accident had shown, any mistake could lead to someone being killed, or permanently scarred.

"This doesn't make any sense," Derek said, slapping the report down on Allison's desk. Allison didn't have to look at it to know it was the report Isaac brought in this morning. She swiveled around in her chair.

"I know. That's why we wanted to go through it with you. But it's accurate. Isaac followed the leads himself." The report was part of a case they'd been working on for months. It was a white collar money laundering crime, but the newest intelligence was that the trail led, not out into some gang on the streets, but toward the Agency.

"Who knows about this?" Derek asked. "Who knows how far into the case we are?" Allison thought for half a second.

"Just the pack. Well... Stiles and Scott knew, too, but neither of them are talking."

"Let's keep it that way. Until we know more, we need to make sure that nothing leaks out about what we're looking into." He picked up the report. "Are there any other copies of this?" He asked.

"No. Isaac only brought in the one."

"Good. I'll see you later." He folded the report and tucked it into the false side of his briefcase, and disappeared out the door.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N So sorry this took so long to get out. I meant to write this for Camp NaNoWriMo, but life happened, so I'm just writing this as I have time now. Thanks for reading, and I hope you like it.**

Stiles was convinced that someone was watching him. It seemed like everywhere he went, he noticed the same car, a car that he swore he'd seen before, up close. It was so frustrating, the feeling of _almost_ remembering. After the accident, and after he'd been released from the hospital, he'd asked if he could see people he used to know. His dad told him that he hadn't had very many friends, and that most of the time, he'd kept himself locked away, writing or painting or something. And when they'd gotten back to the house, there was his room, looking as though someone had just walked out of it an hour before, with a easel in the corner, and a half finished painting propped up on it. At the time, he didn't say anything, because surely his dad knew him better than he knew himself right now, but there was something nagging at the back of his mind, telling him that painting wasn't something he'd ever spent much time doing.

So, now, he went about what he was told was a normal day for him, first stopping to get coffee, and then to his father's office building, where he did accounting work that was dull and boring. He told himself that it was better than nothing, and that he should be grateful that he had a job, instead of sitting at home. Idle hands, and all that. At the end of the day, he was at his desk, massaging his temples when Tyler got there to call for the car.

"We really need to get home. You look about ready to –" he started to say when Stiles stopped him.

"Not here." Stiles hissed, looking toward the closed door. "Dad might hear you, and then there will be another thing for him to complain about." Tyler left for a minute, and came back with a cup of tea, putting it on the desk as he murmured something into his phone. Stiles accepted the tea and put his papers in his briefcase. They walked down to the car, and only when the door closed and they were driving away did Stiles relax back against the seat. "Turn off. The freaking. Music." He growled, massaging his temples. When the car stopped outside Stiles' apartment building, he didn't get out right away. Tyler finally cleared his throat.

"Sir? Let's get you upstairs." Stiles followed him to the elevator, and handed him his keys to let them in to the apartment. He sank gratefully onto the couch and was asleep before Tyler even made it to the door to leave.

" _Stiles." He heard someone calling his name. A voice that he knew should be important. But where had he heard it before? "Stiles, just listen to me, okay? You're not alone. Stiles, you're my best friend. Okay, and I need you. Stiles, you're my brother. You have to remember." He wanted to remember. He tried. Even with the splitting headaches, he pushed himself to remember, but it was like the harder he tried, the less he remembered. "Stiles, I need you to remember!"_

He bolted upright and almost fell off the couch. His skull was pounding as if someone was splitting it apart with a sledgehammer. Even through the haze of the headache, a name was worming its way to the front of his mind. The voice belonged to Scott.

The realization hit him hard, but other than the name, there was nothing. He couldn't even remember what Scott looked like. And remember? What was he supposed to remember? He lay back against the couch cushions and closed his eyes. Tyler was gone, but there was a thermos of tea on the table for him. He managed to get himself to the table, and poured a cup, sipping it slowly at first, and then more eagerly as the headache subsided. Sleep was creeping up to him, and he could feel his eyelids drooping, and by the time his head hit his pillow, he was out cold.

Derek sat in the wolf pack's meeting room, a room that he personally equipped with security and tech, and routinely searched for bugs. You could never be too careful. He was going over a report he was getting ready to turn in to the director. In the past few months, there was a pattern the pack had noticed. Little things that a team that paid less attention wouldn't notice. Things like regular payments that went through a specific set of businesses, as if it was being laundered. And then there was the fact that documents had been destroyed and no one was looking twice at it. He knew there was something fishy going on, but how could he prove it without calling attention to his team? They knew that whatever had happened the night that Scott died and Stiles lost his memory was not an accident. But apart from that, their questions were mostly unanswered. His phone buzzed on the desk, loud in the quite room, and he picked it up without looking at it.

"What?"

"The director is asking for you." Lydia. Of course she would be the only one with enough guts besides Stiles to interrupt him when he'd closed himself away, working.

"Five minutes," he growled, taking his time to put the pages of the report back into the folder. He took a while on purpose, to make his way through the agency to the director's office. When he didn't want to rush, there was no speeding him up, and as much as the director was supposed to be in charge, they both knew who really had the power. He knocked once on the door, and let himself in.

"Good morning," the greeting was crisp, as was the man who gave it, black suit so stiff with starch that Derek could imagine the fabric breaking in two if the director moved the wrong way. He set the report on the desk, and took in every muscle twitch and expression from the director. This reaction to the report would tell them if the director was involved in whatever they suspected was going on. It was a risk, revealing that they knew so much to a person who could be guilty of a crime, but it was a calculated risk, and one that Derek thought they were right to make. But, the director just thumbed through the pages, stopping to read a detail here or there, and then looked up at Derek. "See it through. I don't want this mess to blow up in our faces later." Derek nodded and left, closing the door behind him. So, the director didn't know what was going on? Or...did he? Derek was left with more questions now than he'd had before. Nothing made sense anymore. He thought back to the night Scott died. He knew that there was something he was missing about that night. Stiles and Scott were casing the place, and it should have been routine. Scott and Stiles worked together since high school, and probably before. They'd worked for the Agency for years, both of them, and they'd been on hundreds of trips exactly like this one. So what went wrong? He'd been at home when the call came, that the two in the field were injured. At first, no one would tell the team anything. All they were hearing was that both Stiles and Scott were injured, and to stand by. And then, slowly, the reports started to come that they were both dead. And then, that only one of them was dead, but no one would tell them which one. So, they waited. Finally, sometime around 5am the next morning, they were told for sure, that Scott was dead, and Stiles' memory was wiped clean. At the time, it hadn't seemed odd, and there wasn't any real reason that Derek had to question the director. Agents died in the field. Their team wasn't the first to suffer losses, and they wouldn't be the last. But more and more, Derek was getting the impression that there was some kind of cover up going on, and he was determined to find out the truth.


	3. Chapter 3

Stiles was working late. He'd worked late every night this past week because it helped with his headaches to work mostly in darkness, with just a dim lamp. It was probably ruining his eyesight, but he didn't care. He was taking a break when he thought he heard a door slam shut somewhere in the building. Almost by instinct, he crouched behind his desk, his hand going to his belt, as if searching for a gun in a holster, although he was sure he'd never held one before. The door opened, and he heard someone come in, and then light flooded the room. He ground the heels of his hands against his eyes at the sudden, sharp pain as his eyes had to get used to the light.

"Stiles? What are you doing? Come on, it's 3am. You need to get home and get some sleep." He let out the breath he'd been holding, and stood up. He saved his work, and left the papers laying on his desk, knowing that he'd be back in a few hours anyway, so there wasn't any point to putting them away. Tyler led the way downstairs, berating him all the way. "What are you doing at work this late. Are you nuts? You don't even like this job. I mean, don't you need to sleep?" When they reached the car, Tyler pushed Stiles to the back seat, and went around to the driver's side. Stiles got in, and he was off guard and totally taken by surprise when someone yanked a black bag over his head.

"What the hell-" He started to say, but then he smelled something sweet and cloying, something he recognized. Instinct made him try not to breathe it in, but he couldn't help it, and fuzzy darkness took over, with the muffled sound of voices somewhere nearby that he couldn't focus on.

When he woke up, he was sitting in a chair, and his neck ached from lack of support. He was in a room somewhere. A dark room with a table in front of him, and a mirror. He knew that on the other side of the glass, someone was watching him. He knew this room, too. It was an interrogation room, and he knew that somehow, he'd been here before. Was he a bad person? He wracked his useless memory to try to find some clue to what the hell was going on, but there was nothing. The door opened, and his head snapped up. A young woman, smartly dressed in a suit, with red hair that she wore tightly pulled back in a bun, sat down across from him. He watched her, trying to place her. It was so frustrating. He should know this place, know HER, know so much more than he did.

"Who are you? What do you people want?" He asked, putting up an anger defense that he hoped might intimidate her to let him go.

"My name is Lydia. You're at the Agency. You used to work here, and you're here now because we think we can get some of your memories back. We think your memory holds the answers to a lot of questions we have."

"What kind of questions? And how do you know my memories are gone?" In spite of himself, he found his guard slipping. Something told him he could trust her.

"Questions about what happened the night Scott died and you lost your memories. We think that you and Scott found something-"

"Wait. Scott died in a car accident. My parents told me that he was driving and we got hit by a car, and he died instantly, but I hit my head and lost my..." Stiles' voice faded off as he looked at her with confusion that was mirrored on her face.

"Excuse me for a minute," she said after a long pause, and picked up her file and left, the door clicking shut behind her ominously. "What do I do?" She asked Derek, going into the observation room behind the mirror. He was watching Stiles, and he didn't say anything right away.

"You know Stiles," he said finally. "Give him a clue and he'll find the answers himself. That's why he's so good at his job. Tell him as much as we can afford to have him know and give him his badge, and then let him loose on the computer or whatever he asks for. Maybe he'll be able to find out what we can't." She nodded and went back in.

"Okay. You have questions. Let's answer them first," she said, sitting back down.

"How do you know me? And I worked here? Doing what? What were Scott and I supposedly doing that night? Why didn't' my parents tell me the truth? Why should I believe you? And why did you wait so long to bring me here?"

"You're a part of a team of agents called the Wolf Pack, along with me, Derek and Allison. And Scott. Our job is to stop white collar crime, anything to do with big sums of money going to the wrong people. That night, you and Scott were casing an office building where we believed that there was some kind of money laundering scheme going on, and we're talking a huge operation here. Something in the range of $3.5 billion. It stands to reason that whoever's behind it wants to keep their investments safe. Something happened that night, and we've tracked it as far as we can, but we need your brain. Not just your memories, you're on this team because you have this uncanny ability to figure things out. Especially the things that you're probably not supposed to find." She noticed his expression change, and she raised her eyebrow to encourage him to ask what he wanted to know.

"Is it my fault then, that Scott died?" He asked, almost afraid of the answer.

"Agents are at risk of dying every day." She said finally. "Scott knew the risks, and it could just as easily have been you that died that night." He sighed, and she knew he didn't feel reassured.

"What do you need me to do," he asked.

"We tracked the money back to the Angency, and we need you to go somewhere that has public internet, that can't track you, and see what you can find. Your assistant can go with you to make sure you're safe."

"Am I looking for anything in particular?" She smiled slightly; he sounded like he used to.

"Anything out of the ordinary. You used to play chess and you would say that sometimes you have to go backwards in order to go forwards. Take these and do what you can with them." She handed him several pages that looked like leger pages. He slid them over and scanned them.

"I'll do what I can."


End file.
